


If These Delights Thy Mind May Move

by argyle4eva



Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [21]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, Taking advice from birds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:26:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22647868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: A South Downs fic, in which Aziraphale wonders if he and Crowley have been doing everything backwards, and what that means for things left to do.Written for Mielpetit/mielpetite'sIneffable Valentines prompt list, Day 14 – Be my Valentine/I’m yours. With references to“Birds and Spaceships”and Day 11’s fic,"Of Gold, Glamour, and the Art of Being Seen."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535606
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38
Collections: Ineffable Valentines 2020





	If These Delights Thy Mind May Move

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in the process of moving, and my internet is going to transfer over to my new place sooner than expected, without a lot of warning (and I probably will have a long pause while I get the computer back up), so I'm putting up Day 13 and Day 14 of the challenge early, and all at once. Apologies for any editorial roughness, since I don't have as much time to polish these as expected, but I think they're in pretty decent shape. Happy Valentine's Day, and I'll see folks on the other side . . .

The yellowhammer landed on Aziraphale’s head and chirped at him. He rolled his eyes upward, but kept his head still and continued pouring seed into the feeder. “What was that, dear?”

The yellowhammer fluttered to the feeder and cocked its head at him, waiting for admiration.

“Oh, yes, your breeding coloration is coming in nicely. It looks very sharp.”

The yellowhammer didn’t have a name, names not being something that small perching birds cared about, but Aziraphale recognized the individual as a regular to Wattle Cottage, hence the familiarity.

Another spate of chirping. _Where’s yours? Your head is_ always _yellow_.

Aziraphale smiled. “My kind doesn’t have breeding plumage, I’m afraid.”

 _But you have a mate. How, without colors? Without courting?_

Aziraphale hesitated. “It’s different, for us.”

 _Sounds boring._ The yellowhammer fluttered his wings in dismissal.

“Just different, dear. Eat your seed.”

The yellowhammer flicked its tail and began pecking at breakfast.

\---

The exchange stuck with Aziraphale, more than literal chatter usually did. _Courting._

One could say he and Crowley had spent six thousand years courting – except with the tacit understanding that it was Not Courting At All, so did it really count?

 _Did we miss anything?_

He was happier now than he’d ever imagined being, but at the same time there were moments when it felt as if something was still a bit out of joint. Once they’d been free to act, everything had gone so quickly. They’d simply . . . fallen onto each other and that was that.

Not that Aziraphale would trade any of it. He studied Crowley, seated across from him at the kitchen table, draped over his chair, hair in wildly-askew morning mode, alternately drinking coffee and looking at his phone, occasionally laughing, and reading aloud snippets he thought would amuse Aziraphale.

Aside from the moments of easy domesticity, they certainly seduced each other regularly (sometimes spectacularly), but, again, within the framework of an already-settled relationship.

Aziraphale reached for a piece of toast, and Crowley’s ring glinted on his hand, the glamour still doing its job nicely.

There were patterns, as regular as the seasons, and they’d leapfrogged them all. Maybe, sometimes, it was worth going backwards a bit, and catching up. Filling in the gaps. Aziraphale sipped tea, and considered.

\---

It was an unusually nice day, so they decided to walk the perimeter of their wards, for inspection purposes, even though there was no reason to think anything was amiss. It was an excuse to get out, more than anything.

They’d made it half way around the circle encompassing the valley, and paused at the top of the highest hill, looking down on the sweep and roll of the Downs: fields and hedgerows, starting to get the first hints of green back in them, the village of Chipford looking tiny in the distance, clean air flowing past like a cool river, carrying a hint of the sea. All of the perimeter anchoring points for their wards were in perfect condition so far.

The path wound between two fields, one with a fence high enough to lean on – a good place for contemplation. Conversation had been sparse and relaxed so far. Aziraphale looked down at his hands, laced together on top of the fence, Crowley's ring gleaming on his left hand: brighter than his officer’s ring* on the opposite hand, and infinitely more valuable.

Was this the right time? He studied Crowley’s profile, flame-bright hair blowing in the breeze, surveying the countryside. Crowley looked peaceful, relaxed. So relaxed, he’d even taken off his dark glasses (their chances of encountering anyone were minimal), to enjoy the scenery without lenses in the way.

Aziraphale didn’t want to disrupt that peace. But he also couldn’t wait forever. He cleared his throat. “Crowley?”

“Mm?”

“There’s something I’d like to ask you.”

His tone of voice captured Crowley’s full attention, and Crowley turned to look at him, a thin line between his eyebrows, golden eyes serious.

“Ask me what?”

“It’s just that . . . it seems like we’ve been doing things backwards, you know?”

“I don’t, actually?”

“I mean,” Aziraphale looked down at his laced hands. “We had the consummation, and _then_ the vows, and _then_ the rings, and we’ve never _actually_ had a proper proposal.”

“I’m not sure I follow.” The crease between Crowley’s brows had deepened. “You’re talking about . . . us?” He waved a finger back and forth in the air between them.

“Yes. I want - “ he broke off, took one of Crowley’s unresisting hands in his own and turned him so they were facing each other. Then, without hesitation, Aziraphale went down on one knee.

Crowley gaped, and tried to pull him back up. “Angel, there’s _mud_ , what are you doing?”

“Mud magics out,” Aziraphale said, not looking away from Crowley’s face (and resolutely ignoring the cold moisture seeping into his trousered knee). He took a deep breath.

“Crowley, will you marry me?”

“Aziraphale, I . . . we’ve already done that, I - ”

“Please?” On impulse, remembering the yellowhammer’s comments, Aziraphale summoned his wings, bright even in the subdued winter sunlight, spreading them in an entreating gesture that echoed his words. Poetry suitable to the occasion came to mind. “'Come live with me and be my love.' Say yes?”

There was no misdirection, no temporal barrier. Aziraphale spread his wings beneath the open sky, refusing to hide.

“Butbutbut. . .” Crowley stopped, and stared at Aziraphale, searching his face, then he closed his mouth and black wings flared, proud and unafraid. “Yes. Always. Every time.”

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale grinned in delight and relief. “I’m so glad to hear you say that.”

“Get up,” Crowley said, tugging and Aziraphale stood, still grinning. “Mad, lovestruck angel. Oof!”

Aziraphale pulled Crowley into a tight embrace; Crowley initiated the kiss, as warm and wonderful as their first, and Aziraphale melted into it.

When it ended, Crowley smiled, amber eyes glowing like late-night coals. “How about that. No lightning bolt.”

“No lightning bolt,” Aziraphale agreed, still dizzy with happiness. Not that there’d been any real likelihood of some Godly smiting, not _now_ , but it still felt as if they’d passed some test, received some blessing, they hadn’t before.

Crowley lowered his forehead to Aziraphale’s, and they stood a moment longer.

Overhead, a crow flew past, cawing loudly. Crowley growled and shouted after it, “How about you mind your own business?”

“What did he say?” Aziraphale asked, amused, “I didn’t quite catch it.”

“’Get a room,’ freely translated.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Not exactly a melodious madrigal.”

“That’s crows for you.” Crowley’s eyes glinted with amusement, knowing all about the nature of crows.

“Crows are better at saying what they feel than swans,” Aziraphale commented.

“Swans do all right when they try.”

One more kiss, and they reluctantly parted and tucked away their wings. Their chances of meeting anyone were low, but not nil.

Aziraphale noticed his knee was clean and dry again. “Oh! Thank you!”

“No problem. C’mon, angel. Let’s head home.”

“Of course, love.”

Home.

“ _Come live with me, and be my love;  
And we will all the pleasures prove  
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,  
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.”_

The poem quoted throughout is Christopher Marlowe’s [“The Passionate Shepherd To His Love”](https://poets.org/poem/passionate-shepherd-his-love) and the rustic theme suits the South Downs Retirement Cottage exceptionally well.

* It's my personal headcanon that angels who wear rings were officers in the War; a somewhat obscure meta, but one I like to include.

**Author's Note:**

> Aziraphale's yellowhammer friend is probably getting his breeding plumage a bit early (it seems like April would be more typical than February), but according to Jacqueline Simpson in her book, _Folklore of Sussex_ , there's a regional tradition that birds begin courting on Valentine's Day, so I figured I could bend the rules for the sake of a story. It is, at least, folklorically accurate.


End file.
